THE  MARSH  MAIDEN 
AND  OTHER  PLAYS 


THE     CONTEMPORARY     SERIES 

UNIFORM    WITH    THIS  VOLUME 

Laodice  and  Danae  Play  in  Verse 

By  Gordon  Bottomley 

Images — Old  and  New  Poems 

By  Richard  Aldington 

The  English  Tongue  and  Other  Poems 
By  Lewis  Worthington  Smith 

Five  Men  and  Pompey  Dramatic  Portraits 

By  Stephen  Vincent  Benet 

Horizons  Poems 

By  Robert  Alden  Sanborn 

The  Tragedy  A  Fantasy  in  Verse 

By  Gilbert  Moyle 

Common  Men  and  Women  Rhythmus 

By  Harold  W.  Gammans 

The  Marsh  Maiden  And  Other  Plays 

By  Felix  Gould 


THE  MARSH    MAIDEN 

AND  OTHER  PLAYS 

By 
FELIX  GOULD 


Author  of 
'The  Jewels  of  Isls" 


BOSTON 

The  Four  Seas  Company 
1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
The  Four  Seas  Company 

All  rights   are   expressly   reserved.      For  rights  of  public  per- 
formance, address  the  publishers,  who  are  the  author'iS  agents. 


(i^ 


The     Four     Seas     Press 
Boston.   Mass.,    U.    S.   A. 


CONTENTS 

• 

Pa«e 

The  Marsh  Maiden 

9 

The  Stranger 

23 

In  THE  Marshes 

37 

470839 


THE  MARSH  MAIDEN 


To 

Stanley  Roland 


THE    MARSH    MAIDEN 


CHARACTERS 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
The  Mother 
The  Child:  Aloys 

The  Dog 

The  Marsh  Maiden 

The  Voice  of  the  Little  Lost  Brother 

The  Voice  of  the  Cypress 

The  Voice  of  the  Willow 

The  Voices  of  the  Lilies 

The  Voices  of  the  Reeds 

The  Voice  of  the  Owl 

The  Voices  of  the  Frogs 

The  scene  is  the  living  room  of  the  Peat-Gatherer's 
home,  furnished  in  the  typical  heavy  peasant  style. 
There  is  a  table  at  the  right  against  the  wall,  some 
benches,  a  spinning  wheel,  and  a  tall,  dark  cupboard 
filled  with  blue  dishes  and  woodware.  Other  benches 
are  scattered  about  the  room.  At  the  left  stands  a 
ponderous  chest  of  antique  design  and  curiously 
carved,  forming  a  sort  of  altar  to  the  crucifix  above. 

[9] 


Twilight  has  already  fallen.  No  lamp  is  burning,  but 
the  room  is  faintly  illuminated  by  the  glow  from 
ike  five- place.  At  times  the  firelight  flickers  un- 
steadily, throwing  fantastic  and  menacing  shadows 
on  the  wall,  but  these  as  night  approaches  become 
less  distinct  and  mass  themselves  in  the  background 
around  the  chest  on  which  the  child  is  lying.  Through 
the  low  window  above  this  chest  one  can  vaguely  see 
the  marshes  in  the  distance. 

The  Peat-Gatherer* s  wife  is  seated  on  a  bench  at 
the  feet  of  the  child,  motionless  and  with  eyes  half 
closed.  Whenever  the  child  moves  feverishly,  she 
rises  with  a  start  and  bends  over  him  listening  to 
his  breathing.  She  turns  suddenly  and  with  quick, 
noiseless  steps  made  not  without  effort,  goes  to  the 
door  and  opens  it  softly. 

The  Mother 
[In  a  low  voice.] 
He  is  sleeping.    Do  not  let  the  dog  in.    He  wakes  at 
the  slightest  sound. 

[The  Peat-Gatherer  comes  in.] 
He  has  been  sleeping  for  more  than  an  hour. 
[They  go  softly  to  the  child's  side.] 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
His  cheeks  are  burning. 

The  Mother 
Do  not  touch  him !    Do  not  touch  him !    It  is  the  fever. 
He  wakes  when  he  is  touched. 

[lO] 


The  Peat-Gatherer 
I  will  not  touch  him  .  .   .    How  rapidly  he  breathes, 
and  how  his  little  chest  heaves! 

The  Mother 
You  will  wake  him.    Come  away.    See,  he  is  becoming 
restless  again.     He  heard  our  voices.     Do  not  speak 
so  loudly. 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
Was  Mere  Angele  here  today?    I  told  her  .   .   . 

The  Mother 
Yes  ...     I  think  he  is  going  to  wake.    Let  us  go. 
away.    Perhaps  he  will  sleep. 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
What  did  she  do? 

The  Mother 
She  brought  some  herbs  .  .  .  Wait,  I  will  give  you 
your  soup  .  .  .  She  brought  some  herbs  and  made 
something,  some  kind  of  tea.  She  brewed  it  very 
strong  .  .  .  The  bread  is  in  the  cupboard  .  .  ,  But 
he  would  not  touch  it  because  it  was  very  bitter.  I 
tasted  it  .  .  .  Do  not  make  that  noise  with  the  knife. 
I  believe  the  fever  would  leave  him  if  he  would  drink 
it  .    .    .     He  is  waking  .    .    . 

[They  both  rise.] 
Bring  me  some  water.    He  is  thirsty.    There  is  some 
in  your  cup.    He  is  burning  with  fever. 
[She  bends  over  him  with  the  cup  and  raises  him.] 
Drink,  Aloys  .   .   .     Aloys  .   .   . 

[II] 


[At  the  same  moment,  the  Marsh  Maiden  appears  at 
the  window.  She  is  wondrously  beautiful  and 
bears  in  her  hands  a  large  bowl  of  the  color  of  the 
sky  when  it  is  bright  moonlight.  The  bowl  is  studded 
with  twinkling  stars  that  vanish  softly  and  come 
back  again.] 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
Is  he  drinking? 

The  Mother 
No,  he  is  gazing  out  of  the  window.     He  is  smiling. 
Drink,  Aloys  .   .   .     Aloys. 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
Drink,  Aloys  .   .   .     Aloys  .   .   . 

[She  puts  the  wonderful  bowl  to  his  lips.] 

The  Mother 
He  is  swallowing  the  water  in  great  gulps.    The  fever 
makes  him  thirsty. 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
Little  Aloys,  do  you  hear  the  cool  water  flowing  over 
the  white  pebbles  ...  so  cool  ...  so  fresh  .    .    . 
so  cold  .    .    .   falling  on  the  rocks?     Do  you  hear  it 
singing?     Do  you  hear  it,  dear  little  Aloys? 

Aloys 
Yes  ...     It  is  singing  ...     It  is  singing  .   .   . 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
And  Aloys,  can  you  see  the  little  gold  fish  ?    They  are 
swimming!     Oh  Aloys,  they  are  swimming  to  you! 
They  are  coming  to  you ! 

[12] 


Aloys 
[With  a  little  cry  of  delight.] 
They  are  coming  to  me  ...   .     That  one  .   .   .  that 
shines  .  .  .     Oh  .   .  . 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
What  is  he  saying? 

The  Mother 
I  do  not  understand.    It  is  the  fever  that  makes  him 
speak.    Take  the  cup. 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
His  eyes  are  wide  open  .  .  . 

The  Mother 
He  sees  nothing.    He  does  not  know  we  are  near. 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
Little  Aloys  .   .  .     The  marshes   .   .  .     The  marshes, 
Aloys  ... 

The  Mother 
He  is  smiling. 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
The  marshes,  Aloys  .  .  .  dark  and  cool  .  .  .  green  .  .  . 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
Perhaps  he  recognizes  us.    Aloys  ... 

The  Mother 
Hush !    He  will  begin  to  cry. 

[13] 


The  Voice  of  the  Little  Lost  Brother 
Oh  Aloys  .   .   .     Aloys,  little  brother  .   .   . 

The  Voice  of  the  Willow 
Sorrow  .  .  .    Sorrow  .  .  .    Sorrow  .  .  .    Tears  .  .  . 

The  Voice  of  the  Cypress 

[In  deep,  bell-like  tones.] 

Down  at  my  roots  .  .  .    Ah,  Aloys  ...  at  my  roots ! 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
His  eyes  are  closing. 

The  Mother 
He  is  falling  asleep  again. 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
Little  Aloys !    Little  Aloys !    The  marshes  .   .   . 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
He  is  smiling. 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
The  mar  .  .   .  shes !    Oh  Al  .  .  .  oys  .   .  . 
[She  is  no  longer  seen.] 

The  Mother 
He  is  going  to  sleep  for  a  long  time  now.    He  always 
does  when  I  give  him  water. 

Aloys 
The  marshes  ...    Oh  .    .    the  mar  .   .    shes  .   .   . 

[14] 


The  Peat-Gatherer 
The  marshes  .   .   .     Did  you  hear?     He  spoke  of  the 
marshes ! 

The  Mother 
[With  an  effort.] 
He  is  .   .   .     He  is  only  dreaming. 

[Suddenly.] 
You  found  him  under  the  great  willow? 

The  Peat-Gatherer 
He  was  lying  among  the  lilies  with  his  arms  around 
their  stems.  The  willow  was  touching  him  with  its 
long  branches  and  the  mists  were  gathering  around 
him.  I  thought  he  was  drowned  like  .  .  .  the  other. 
It  was  by  a  miracle  that  he  was  not  drowned. 

The  Mother 
[She  stares  unseeing  before  her.] 
He  is  drawn  to  the  spot,  and  it  is  I  who  have  given 
him  that  strange  longing  for  it,  that  longing  for  the 
marshes.  It  is  I.  It  is  I.  Even  before  he  was  born, 
while  he  slept  under  my  heart  I  made  that  longing  a 
part  of  his  life. 

He  does  not  love  the  sunshine.  He  trembles  in  the 
light.  He  smiles  only  in  the  evening.  They  say  that 
he  .  .  .  But  they  know  nothing !  Nothing !  I  know. 
I  know.  Perhaps  if  I  had  gone  that  day  ...  If  you 
had  let  me  go  to  the  marshes  when  that  man  saw  .  .  . 
the  other  .  .  .  near  the  willow  ...  it  would  not  have 
been  so.     But  you  would  not  let  me  go.    And  so  the 

[15] 


other  was  always  in  my  thoughts.  Always.  Always. 
I  began  to  picture  him  as  they  said  .  .  .  Oh,  I  could 
not  believe  that  I  should  never  see  him  again,  not  even 
his  little  body.  At  night  I  dreamed  of  him.  I  dreamed 
I  saw  him  under  the  willow  in  the  marshes.  In  the 
morning  the  marshes  were  before  my  eyes.  All  day  . . . 
They  tortured  me.  I  longed  to  go  to  them,  to  that 
spot  to  find  him.  They  were  always  before  me  .  .  . 
green  .  .  .  silent  .  .  .  poisonous  .  .  .  like  a  great 
sleeping  serpent.  I  suffered  in  my  longing.  Then  he 
was  born   ...     [A  long  silence.] 

The  Peat-Gatherer 

[With  emotion.] 

Do  not  speak  of  such  things.     Do  not  think  of  them. 

[He  rises  abruptly  and  goes  outside  to  close  the  win- 
dows. The  room  becomes  very  dark.  He  returns 
to  his  bench  and  leans  against  the  wall,  leaving  the 
door  slightly  open.  Gradually  the  full  moon  rises. 
One  can  see  the  light  faintly  through  the  curtains 
of  the  windows.  Neither  speaks.  After  a  while  one 
can  see  their  forms  like  silhouettes  in  the  darkness. 
They  become  motionless.  They  are  asleep.  A  ray 
of  moonlight  falls  upon  the  child  who  begins  to  toss 
feverishly.  A  light  scratching  is  heard,  the  door  is 
pushed  open  and  the  dog  comes  in.  The  Marsh 
Maiden  is  seen  standing  on  the  threshold  in  the  full 
golden  light  of  the  moon.  The  dog  lies  down  before 
the  fire-place  and  falls  asleep.  The  Marsh  Maiden 
enters.  She  seems  to  carry  the  moonlight  with  her.  ] 
[i6] 


The  Marsh  Maiden 
[Softly.] 
Aloys  .  .  .    Little  Aloys,  I  have  come  .  .  . 

Aloys 
Your  lips  are  so  cool  ... 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
Little  Aloys,  look! 
[She  touches  the  windows  lightly,  they  open  and  in 

the  distance  one  sees  the  marshes,  flooded  with  a 

soft  mellow  light.] 

Aloys 
[With  a  cry  of  ineffable  happiness.] 
Oh  .   .   . 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
The  marshes  .    .    .     The  marshes  are  waking  to  life. 
They  wake  at  night,  always  at  night.    Listen ! 
[From  the  distance  comes  a  confused  hum  of  voices.] 

The  Voices  of  the  Frogs 
Coax !    Coax !    Coax ! 

Aloys 
The  Frogs !    It  is  the  Frogs ! 

The  Voice  of  the  Owl 
Who?    Who?    Who? 

Aloys 
The  Owl!     The  Owl!     The  little  Owl  that  lives  in 
the  Cypress! 

[17] 


The  Marsh  Maiden 
Listen  .  .  .    The  Lilies  ... 

A  Lily 
Oh  golden  moonlight,  your  touch  has  turned  my  heart 
to  gold! 

Another  Lily 
Oh  silver  starlight,  your  touch  has  turned  my  petals 
to  silver! 

A  Water  Lily 
I  have  two  drops  of  dew  nestling  in  my  heart  .    .    . 

Another  Water  Lily 
Oh,  I  am  trembling  ...      I  am  trembling  ...    I  am 
opening  a  bud  .   .   . 

Another  Water  Lily 
My  chalice  is  filled  with  pearls,  real  pearls  .   .   . 

A  Reed  I 

It  is  only  the  dew  .   .   .    ' 

The  Voices  of  the  Reeds 
Oh  Breeze  of  Night !    Oh  Breeze  soft  blowing !    Sway 
us  .  .  .    Bend  us  .  .  .  caress  us  .  .  . 

The  Voice  of  the  Little  Lost  Brother 
Aloys  .   .  .    Aloys  .  .   . 

The  Voice  of  the  Willow 
Sorrow  .  .  .    Sorrow  .  .  .    Sorrow  .  .  .    Tears  .  .  . 

[i8] 


The  Voice  of  the  Cypress 

[In  deep,  bell-like  tones] 

Down  at  my  roots  .  .  .  Ah,  Aloys  ...  at  my  roots  . . . 

The  Voice  of  the  Little  Eost  Brother 
Aloys,  come! 

The  Voices  of  the  Lilies 
[Singing.] 
Come ! 

The  Voices  of  the  Reeds 
[Sighing.] 
Come,  oh  come! 

The  Voice  of  the  Willow 
[  Weeping.  ] 
Come !    Come ! 

The  Voice  of  the  Cypress 
[In  deep,  hell-like  tones.] 
Down  at  my  roots  ...     At  my  roots,  Aloys ! 

The  Voice  of  the  Little  Lost  Brother 
Aloys,  I  have  beautiful  shells  .    .    . 

Aloys 
[Descending  from  the  chest.] 
I  am  coming!    I  am  coming! 

The  Voices  of  the  Lilies 
[Singing.] 
He  is  coming!    He  is  coming! 

[19] 


The  Voices  of  the  Reeds 
[Sighing.] 
He  is  coming  ... 

The  Voice  of  the  Willow 
[Weeping.] 
He  is  coming  .    .    . 

The  Voice  of  the  Cypress 
[In  deep,  hell-like  tones.] 
Down  at  my  roots!    Ah  .   .   .     Aloys! 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
Aloys,  give  me  your  hand  I    Come,  we  will  go !    Come ! 
Come  to  the  marshes  ...  to  the  marshes ! 

Aloys 
I  am  coming!    I  am  coming! 

The  Marsh  Maiden 
To  the  marshes  .   .   . 

[She   takes   the   hand   of  Aloys   and   both  pass   out 
through  the  door.] 

Aloys 
To  the  marshes! 
[They  pass  the  window  and  are  seen  to  disappear  in 

the    distance.      The    Peat-Gatherer    and    his   wife 

still  sleep.] 

the  play  ends 

[20] 


THE  STRANGER 


To 

Mesrop  Nevton,  Khan 


THE    STRANGER 

CHARACTERS 

The  Father 

The  Mother 

Their  Daughter,  Madeleine 

Her  Betrothed,  Henri 

The  Stranger 

The  scene  is  before  the  house.  In  the  background,  and 
stretching  far  into  the  horizon,  the  marshes.  It  is 
late  afternoon.  The  sun  is  already  hidden  behind 
the  great  fantastic  masses  of  dead  vegetation  which 
changes  its  appearance  and  color  as  twilight  and 
night  come  on. 

The  Father  and  the  Mother  are  seated  on  a  long 
stone  bench. 

The  Father 
It  is  true.     She  is  very  pale.     I  fear  she  is  ill  .    .    . 
but  she  will  not  tell  us.   She  does  not  wish  to  grieve  us. 

The  Mother 
I  have  often  found  her  weeping  .    .    . 

[23] 


The  Father 
She  has  never  suffered  before,  to  have  the  strength  to 
bear  her  grief. 

The  Mother 
They   were   always    together,   the   two  .    .    .      They 
seemed  to  have  one  soul  .   .   . 

The  Father 
Our  kisses  are  not  her  kisses  .  .  . 

The  Mother 
We  must  not  allow  her  to  take  those  solitary  walks. 
I  believe  she  walks  among  the  marshes.     Henri  met 
her  there  when  he  came  by  the  marsh  road  one  evening. 

The  Father 
She  wishes  to  be  alone,  always  alone.     Grief  seeks 
solitude. 

The  Mother 
We  must  try  to  soften  her  sorrow.    We  must  not  show 
her  ours. 

The  Father 
Yes,  though  every  movement,  ever}'  word,  recalls  the 
other. 

The  Mother 
She  takes  no  pleasure  in  her  doves.     She  does  not 
caress  them  or  feed  them  from  her  lips,  or  kiss  them. 
Her  only  pleasure  is  solitude.     It  would  be  cruel  to 
tell  her,  and  yet  .  .  . 

[24] 


The  Father 
We  must  tell  her.    I  shall  tell  her  myself. 

The  Mother 
Have  you  seen  how  her  cheeks  burn  when  she  returns, 
and  how  bright  her  eyes  become? 

The  Father 
No  .  .  .  I  have  seen  nothing.  Nothing!  You  only 
imagine  ...  Do  not  weep.  It  is  only  the  exertion 
of  walking.  Yes,  it  is  only  the  exertion.  She  walks  a 
great  distance.  It  is  nothing.  Only  .  .  .  she  is  very 
weak.  It  is  true  she  is  weak.  She  is  so  young.  Do 
not  be  alarmed. 

The  Mother 
So  the  strange  malady  that  robbed  her  of  her  sister 
appeared.     She  drooped  like  a  lily  .    .    .  even  as  she 
now  .    .   .     They  cannot  be  without  each  other,  even 
in  death.    She  is  calling  her  .   .  . 

The  Father 
We  must  not  have  these  thoughts.    Perhaps,  after  all, 
we  deceive  ourselves.    God  is  good  ... 

The  Mother 
She  has  become  so  dear  to  me,  the  last  one  .   .   .  the 
only  one  left  to  us  .   .   . 

The  Father 
So  dear  .  .  . 
[  He  becomes  silent.    Two  big  tears  fall  upon  his  hands.  ] 

[2S] 


Henri  is  coming.  Do  not  let  him  see  us  weeping.  Do 
not  let  him  know  why  we  are  weeping. 
[Henri  enters.  He  is  a  bronzed,  taciturn  peasant. ^ 
Good  evening,  Henri.  We  were  waiting  for  you.  It 
is  good  of  you  to  come  so  early  when  we  are  alone 
with  our  thoughts.  Madeleine  has  not  yet  returned. 
Did  you  come  by  way  of  the  marsh  road? 

Henri 
No.    I  came  through  the  meadow  .   .   .  through  Pere 
Jacquot's  meadow. 

The  Mother 
Will  you  not  sit  down,  Henri? 

The  Father 
You  would  have  met  her  if  you  had  come  by  the  way 
of  the  marsh  road.     She  walks  there  in  the  evening. 

Henri 
I  thought  I  should  find  her  here  ...  I  came  early  .  .  . 

The  Mother 
She  will  return  soon,  Henri. 

Henri 
She  takes  these  walks  every  evening?  .    .    .     Every 
evening  ? 

The  Father 
Yes. 

[A  silence.] 
[26] 


Henri 
Two  of  our  cows  have  calved  ...  the  black  one  and 
the  one  with  the  big  white  spot  on  her  side.  The  black 
one  gave  us  trouble.  We  were  going  to  call  Pere 
Jacquot,  but  it  became  unnecessary  later.  Now  we 
have  two  new  calves. 

The  Mother 
Two  .  .   .    What  color  are  they? 

Henri 
They  are  both  black  but  one  of  them  has  a  white  foot 
and  a  white  spot  on  the  side  like  the  mother.     They 
are  both  very  big.     We  shall  wean  them  before  the 
summer  ends. 

The  Father 
And  the  mare,  Henri? 

Henri 
She  will   foal  in  November    .    .    .     Will  Madeleine 
return  soon?    It  is  becoming  so  dark  .    .   . 

The  Mother 
She  will  be  here  soon,  Henri.     She  always  returns 
before  the  moon  rises. 

Henri 
[Abruptly.] 
I  believe  Madeleine  goes  among  the  marshes  when  she 
knows  I  am  coming  ... 

[27] 


The  Mother 
Henri ! 

[The  Father  rises,] 

Henri 
It  seems  that  she  has  always  had  a  secret  aversion  for 
me.  When  I  touch  her  hand,  she  trembles  .  .  .  and 
when  I  kiss  her.  She  speaks  only  in  answers.  I  believe 
she  became  my  betrothed  because  you  wished  it.  Per- 
haps she  has  told  you  .   .  . 

The  Father 

[Gently.] 

She  does  not  love  you  less,  Henri.     It  is  only  the 

sorrow  that  has  come  upon  her.     They  were  always 

together,  the  two  .   .   .     You  understand  .   .   . 

Henri 
.   .  .  She  does  not  wear  my  ring.    I  did  not  see  it  on 
her  hand  the  last  time.    I  said  nothing  to  her,  however. 
Does  she  wear  the  ring?    Have  you  seen  her  wear  it? 

The  Mother 
The  ring  ...    I  do  not  remember  ...     I  think  .  .  . 
No,  I  did  not  see  it  on  her  hand  when  she  was  sleep- 
ing .    .    .     Perhaps  she  lost  it,  Henri,  and  does  not 
wish  .    .   . 

The  Father 
Here  is  Madeleine. 

[28] 


Henri 
[Quickly.] 
Do  not  speak  of  it  to  her. 

The  Father 
Madeleine,  dear  child  .   .   . 

[Madeleine  appears  at  the  left,  from  the  background.] 

The  Mother 
My  daughter  .   .   .  dearest  .   .   . 

Madeleine 
[Sinks  upon  the  long  stone  bench.] 
Dear  father  .    .    .  mother  .    .    . 

[The  three  are  locked  in  one  embrace.] 

The  Mother 
Madeleine,  here  is  Henri. 

Madeleine 
Henri  .   .   . 

The  Mother 
Madeleine,  your  hand  is  trembling.    You  are  ill  ?    Tell 
me,  dear  child. 

The  Father 
Do  not  fear  to  grieve  us. 

Madeleine 
I  am  tired. 

129] 


The  Mother 
Will  you  not  come  into  the  house,  Madeleine? 

Madeleine 
Presently  ... 

The  Father 
I  am  going  to  put  your  fauteuil  near  the  window 
where  you  can  see  the  stars. 

[  The  Mother  follows  him  into  the  house,  with  a  glance 
toward  Henri,] 

Henri 
Madeleine,  do  not  go.     I  wish  to  speak  to  you. 

[Madeleine  sinks  hack  upon  the  bench.] 
Madeleine,  you  are  not  wearing  my  ring   .    .    . 

Madeleine 
Your  ring  ... 

Henri 
I  do  not  see  it  on  your  hand.    You  did  not  wear  it  the 
last  time  .   .   . 

Madeleine 
It  is  true  .   .   . 

Henri 
Madeleine,  what  have  you  done  with  the  ring? 

[Madeleine  is  silent.] 
Madeleine  .  .  , 

[30] 


Madelein  e 
I  threw  it  into  the  marsh. 

Henri 
The  marsh! 

Madeleine 
[Voicelessly.] 
He  willed  it  .  .   . 

Henri 
He! 

Madeleine 
My  lover.     I  have  a  lover.     He    dwells   among   the 
marshes.     I  go  to  him.     He  wishes  it   ...   in  the 
evening  ... 

Henri 
You !    Madeleine ! 

Madeleine 
Yes. 

Henri 
And   your   mother,   your   good   mother  .    .    .     your 
father  .  .  . 

Madeleine 
They  know  nothing. 

Henri 
Those  walks  in  the  evening  ... 

[31] 


Madeleine 
[Tonelessly.] 
To  him. 

Henri 
Madeleine  ...     I  dare  not  ask  you  .   .   .     Swear  to 
me  by  the  memory  of  your  sainted  sister  that  you.  .  . 
that  he  .   .   .  that  you  are  still  pure  .   .   . 

Madeleine 
No. 

Henri 
And  you,  whom  we  thought  so  gentle,  like  a  lily  .   .   . 

[Madelene  smiles  with  half -closed  eyes.] 

Henri 
Oh,  I  should  strangle  you !  Brazen  harlot  .  .  .  You 
can  smile !  Oh,  how  hideous  you  are  .  .  .  your  green 
face  .  .  .  your  sunken  eyes  .  .  .  like  a  corpse  in  the 
marshes.  I  have  never  seen  you  so  hideous  before! 
All  the  rotteness  of  the  marshes,  all  the  rotteness  of 
your  soul  is  in  your  face  .  .  .  Oh  .  .  . 
[He  goes  quickly  away.] 

The  Stranger 
[Emerging  from  the  darkness  of  the  background.] 
Madeleine  .   .   . 

Madeleine 
You  have  come  .    .    . 

[32] 


The  Stranger 
[In  deep  vibrating  tones.] 
Madeleine,  come  to  me. 


Yes 


Madeleine  . 


Madeleine 
[Submissively.] 

The  Stranger 
[Gently.] 


Madeleine 
Oh,  your  voice  is  soft  and  your  eyes  gentle  .  .  .  yet 
I  tremble  ...  I  should  hate  you,  for  so  you  betrayed 
her  .  .  .  Yet  I  am  bound  to  you  by  every  thought,  by 
every  fibre  of  my  being.  My  will  is  not  my  own  and 
you  are  pitiless  .   .   . 

The  Stranger 
Madeleine,  come  with  me. 

Madeleine 
Oh,  my  sister  would  rise  from  her  grave  to  tear  me 
from  your  arms  .   .   .     She  loved  you  .   .   . 

The  Stranger 
Madeleine,  we  shall  be  united  forever. 


You  betrayed  her  . 


Madeleine 

[33] 


The  Stranger 
I  swear  to  you,  forever.    Madeleine,  with  me,  forever. 

Madeleine 
Forever  ... 

The  Stranger 
[In  solemn,  sonorous  tones-] 
Forever, 

Madeleine 
Forever  .    .   . 

[They  pass  slowly  toward  the  background.] 

The  Father 
[Within  the  house.] 
Madeleine,  dear  child  .   .   . 


the  play  ends 


l34] 


IN  THE  MARSHES 


To 

Lady  Anne  Azgapetian 


IN    THE    MARSHES 

At  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  the  scene  is  plunged  in 
an  intense  and  impenetrable  darkness,  which,  except 
for  one  moment  later,  continues  throughout  the 
action  of  the  play. 

An  oppressive  silence  reigns,  broken  or  intensified  by 
a  sound  as  of  heavy  and  continuous  rain  falling  on  an 
expanse  of  water.  But  the  sound  is  veiled  and  even 
merely  suggestive.;  an  interval  elapses  before  it 
becomes  definite  in  the  consciousness  of  the  auditor. 
At  times  it  grozvs  fainter  and  apparently  ceases;  one 
then  vaguely  hears  a  repressed  and  tearless  sobbing, 
as  of  exhaustion,  mingled  with  incoherent  utterances. 

One  also  hears,  but  less  suggestively,  a  peculiar 
rhythmic  beating  or  tapping. 

Something  offers  a  gradually  weakening  resistance 
to  the  increasing  violence  of  the  wind.  A  sudden 
and  ringing  crash  follows.  Simultaneously,  the 
noise  of  the  rain  as  though  rendered  more  audible 
by  the  removal  of  some  intervening  object  rises  to 
the  roar  of  a  cataract. 

One  imagines  having  heard  a  shuddering  wail  of 
terror.  The  downpour  continues  with  unabated  and 
overwhelming  fury.    A  lull. 

[37] 


A  Woman's  Voice 

Mother,  the  wind  has  broken  the  panes !  Oh,  it  came 
so  suddenly,  I  thought  my  heart  would  burst  with  fear. 
And  I  was  thinking  of  them,  too,  at  that  moment.  I 
thought  ...  At  first  I  thought  they  had  come !  Did 
the  noise  wake  him  mother,  Mother?  It  seems  to  me 
I  heard  his  voice  .  .  .  Armande,  you  are  not  sleeping? 
Oh,  how  can  anyone  sleep  now,  and  so  quietly,  as  if 
this  terrible  darkness  were  nothing! 

Do  you  hear  the  rain.  Mother?  It  is  coming  in  like 
a  flood.  You  can  hear  it  running  down  the  walls 
through  the  cracks.  It  is  moving  under  my  feet.  Oh, 
it  is  so  cold  ...  so  cold!  It  seems  as  if  I  were  on  a 
rack  when  I  move.  It  is  the  fever  .  .  .  Here  in  this 
darkness  and  this  dampness  .  .  .  The  air  is  poisoned ! 
At  times  my  head  bums!  It  is  as  though  someone 
thrust  a  hot  needle  through  my  brain!  ...  If  Jean 
does  not  take  us  away  from  here  tomorrow,  we  shall 
all  be  dead.  We  cannot  endure  this  longer.  The 
marsh  air  is  poisoning  us.  It  is  killing  us.  Oh,  and 
this  darkness!  ...  If  only  the  sun  were  shining  .  .  . 
even  if  it  were  twilight  ...  I  should  not  complain. 
This  darkness  is  terrible!  It  is  like  a  black  veil  that 
clings  to  the  eyes  ...  I  cannot  tear  it  off.  It  is 
like  being  blind. 

How  terrible  it  must  be  to  be  blind !  Not  to  see  .  .  . 
Always  to  be  in  darkness  .  .  .  always  ...  as  long  as 
one  lives!  To  have  one's  eyes  open  and  not  to  see! 
To  stand  in  the  sunlight  and  still  be  in  darkness !  Oh, 
and  there  are  so  many  blind  people!    Mother,  I  have 

[38] 


seen  them  smile  sometimes  .  .  .  My  God!  how  can 
they  smile  in  the  darkness!  What  can  they  do  all 
day?  They  must  think  .  .  .  think  ...  To  do  nothing  all 
day  but  think!  Oh,  I  should  go  mad.  I  should  kill 
myself ! 

They  do  not  fear  the  darkness.  It  does  not  frighten 
them.  Perhaps  they  think  no  one  will  harm  them  be- 
cause they  are  blind.  And  yet  someone  may  be  near 
.  .  .  near  enough  to  touch  them  .  .  .  near  enough 
to  .  .  . 

Mother,  is  the  door  locked  ?  It  seems  to  me  I  heard 
.  .  .  No,  it  is  locked.  I  am  sure  it  is  locked.  Yes, 
I  am  quite  certain.  How  heavy  the  child  is!  He 
weighs  like  lead  in  my  arms.     I  am  sure  it  is  locked. 

I  think  if  I  were  blind,  Mother,  I  should  always 
want  to  hear  someone's  voice  and  feel  someone's  hand. 
It  must  be  terrible  to  think  you  are  alone  when  there 
is  someone  near!  In  this  darkness  it  is  as  though  I 
were  blind.  My  eyes  are  open  and  yet  I  cannot  see. 
If  there  were  someone  in  this  room  .  .  .  behind  .  .  . 
me  .   .   .  Mother,  is  it  you  whispering?    Mother  .   .   . 

Mother,  oh  for  the  love  of  the  dear  God,  speak  to 
me!  Let  me  hear  your  voice!  Do  not  torture  me. 
I  am  dying  with  fear.  I  shall  not  be  afraid  if  I  hear 
your  voice.  How  cruel  you  are!  You  must  suffer, 
too,  in  this  terrible  darkness.  Why  do  you  hate  me  so  ? 
What  have  I  done?  You  have  always  hated  me.  I 
do  not  know  why.  I  try  to  please  you  but  you  are  like 
a  stranger.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  your  son's 
wife  .   .   .    You  did  not  want  him  to  marry  me.    Oh, 

[391 


I  know !  I  know !  Armande  told  me.  You  are  angry 
because  he  loves  me.  I  have  often  seen  it.  Once  you 
wept.  You  thought  I  did  not  see.  You  think  your 
son  must  love  no  one  but  you.  And  you  hate  me,  too, 
because  you  think  we  are  suffering  here  through  my 
fault. 

Mother,  I  swear  to  you  I  did  not  tell  Armande.  I 
swear  it  to  you  by  the  saints,  by  my  eternal  salvation. 
It  was  Mere  Martin's  boy.  I  knew  Armande  would 
stop  at  nothing  if  I  told  him  .  .  .  what  that  man  .  .  . 
oh  ...  I  was  silent  all  day.  You  know  yourself  I 
did  not  answer  when  he  asked  me.  It  was  Mere  Mar- 
tin's boy,  the  little  brat !  My  God !  they  think  because 
we  are  peasants  we  are  at  their  beck  and  call  like  any 
vile  townswoman  .  .  .  But  you  do  not  believe  me. 
You  do  not  believe  me.  You  think  I  am  telling  lies  .  .  . 
Lies !  When  I  swear  it  by  God  Himself !  Oh,  in  your 
heart  I  know  you  believe  me ;  but  you  will  not  say  so. 
You  will  not  say  a  single  word.  Mother,  pity  me  .  .  . 
I  am  suffering.  My  head  bums.  Speak  to  me.  Say 
something  to  me  .  .  .  one  word  .  .  .  one  little  word 
.  .  .    Oh,  I  shall  go  mad  in  this  darkness  and  silence ! 

Listen,  Mother,  if  you  do  not  speak  to  me,  I  shall 
wake  Armande!  Do  you  hear?  I  shall  wake  Armande. 
Speak  to  me.  You  know  he  must  sleep  .  .  .  sleep  will 
save  his  life.  Mother  .  .  .  Armande  .  .  .  Armande, 
Armande !  Oh,  at  least  the  dog  will  hear  me.  Where 
is  the  dog?  Pataud!  Pataud!  Here.  .  .come  here! 
My  God !  even  the  dog  will  not  come  to  me  .  .  .  They 
are  pitiless  .    .    .     They  want  to  drive  me  mad! 

[40] 


[The  sound  of  desperate  sobbing.] 
You  have  the  heart  of  a  tiger.  You  are  happy  only 
when  you  see  me  suffer.  Oh,  I  shall  tell  Armande! 
I  shall  tell  him  how  cruel  you  are  to  me  .  .  .  and 
other  things.  He  will  be  angry.  Oh,  you  will  see! 
You  will  see!  You  know  how  terrible  he  is  when 
he  is  angry.  He  knows  you  hate  me.  He  will  make 
you  live  by  yourself  in  another  house,  like  Mere 
Ponsonet's  son.  I  can  be  cruel,  too,  but  it  will  be  your 
fault,  your  own  fault ! 

If  you  will  speak  to  me  .  .  .  Mother,  if  you  will 
speak  to  me,  I  shall  say  nothing  to  Armande.  Oh,  if 
you  knew  how  I  am  suffering!  This  dread,  this  fear 
is  torturing  me.  In  this  darkness  I  feel  that  some- 
thing is  about  to  happen  .  .  .  something  .  .  .  some- 
thing ...  I  do  not  know  what.  That  is  why  I 
suffer.  I  do  not  know  what  I  fear.  Oh,  it  seems  to 
me  one  feels  pain  only  in  awaiting  it.  It  is  like  a  whip 
that  hurts  before  it  falls  ...  If  I  could  scream  .  .  . 
But  I  am  afraid   .    .    .   Someone  may  hear  me! 

Mother,  I  think  the  water  is  rising.  The  marsh 
must  be  flooded  with  such  heavy  rains  all  day.  Jean 
will  have  to  come  with  a  boat  tomorrow  when  .  .  . 
Mother,  someone  laughed  .  .  .  near  me  .  .  .  some 
one!  ...  I  heard  a  laugh!  Armande!  Mother! 
Where  are  you?  Let  me  come  to  you!  Save  me! 
Where  are  you?    Where  ... 

[There  is  a  sudden  and  lingering  flash  of  lightning, ^ 
followed  almost  immediately  by  a  deafening  roll  of 

[41] 


thunder.  In  the  brilliant  glare  the  scene  is  for  one 
brief  moment  revealed.  One  sees  the  interior  of  a 
hut,  whose  rafters  sloping  upwards  and  towards  the 
spectator,  give  an  impression  of  size  to  the  room 
greater  than  its  actual  dimensions.  This  effect  is 
intensified  by  its  absolute  bareness. 

From  above,  heavy  masses  of  cobwebs,  the  accumula- 
tion of  many  years,  sway  noiselessly  and  with  a 
certain  regularity  of  movement. 

There  is  a  window  in  the  back,  but  the  panes  are  shat- 
tered and  lie  in  fragments  on  the  sill  and  floor} 
Through  it  one  sees  the  branches  of  a  willow  tree 
silhouetted  against  the  livid  sky.  These,  under  the 
fury  of  the  wind,  which  seems  to  endow  them  with 
life,  hiss  through  the  air  like  whips  and  beat  wildly 
against  the  window. 

A  dense  mist  enters  through  every  aperture  and  hangs 
heavily  in  the  air.  It  is  the  deadly  miasma  of  the 
marshes. 

The  walls  sweat.  Their  exhudations  glide  down  in 
huge  drops  and  mingle  with  the  green  slime  which 
covers  the  floor. 

From  under  the  closed  door  at  the  right,  a  stream  of 
water  enters,  gathering  in  a  shallow  depression  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  where  the  floor  has  sunken. 

In  this  pool  one  sees  the  crouched  and  motionless  figure 
of  a  woman.  Her  face  cannot  be  seen,  for  her  hand 
is  raised  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow.  She  has  an  infant 
on  her  knees,  almost  hidden  by  her  luxuriant  black 
hair. 

[42] 


In  the  back  corner  at  the  left,  there  are  two  human 
figures.  One,  a  young  man,  is  lying  on  a  pallet  of 
decaying  rushes,  with  a  blood-stained  rag  about  his 
head.  A  large  mongrel  lies  shivering  at  his  feet. 
Beside  him,  her  emaciated  hands  still  clutching  a 
rusty  fowling  piece,  is  an  old  woman,  his  mother. 
Her  fallen  jaw,  the  posture  of  her  head,  give  to  her 
face  the  appearance  of  a  silent  and  horrible  laugh. 
Both  are  quite  dead.  Already  the  loathsome  crea- 
tures of  the  marsh  have  taken  possession  of  the 
bodies. 

Darkness  suddenly  obliterates  the  scene.] 

I  am  coming!  I  am  coming!  Oh  where  are  you, 
Mother?  Armande  .  .  .  Armande,  how  can  you 
sleep  when  I  suffer  so!  How  can  you  lie  there  so 
quietly  when  your  own  mother  tortures  me !  Oh,  God ! 
Pity  me!  Ught!  Light!  A  Httle  light  ...  one 
ray  .  .  .  Where  are  you,  Mother?  I  feel  I  am  near 
you.  Where  ...  I  am  coming  ...  I  am  coming 
...     I  am  coming  .  .  . 

Ah  .  .  ,  Thank  God!  Armande,  I  shall  not  be 
afraid  now !  Armande !  Armande !  Mother !  He  is 
cold  .  .  .  cold!  I  do  not  hear  him  breathe!  His 
heart  ...  it  does  not  beat  ...  No !  He  is  dead ! 
He  is  dead!     Armande!     Armande! 

Mother,  Armande  is  dead!  He  is  dead!  Mother, 
where  are  you?  Mother  .  .  .  Help!  She  is  dead  .  .  . 
She  is  dead !  They  are  both  dead  ...  I  am  alone 
in  the  darkness  .  .   .     Alone  with  the  dead ! 

[43] 


[Above  the  mighty  roar  of  the  cataclysm,  three  pro- 
longed screams  are  heard  in  rising  tones  of  supreme 
horror.    Something  falls. 

The  storm  has  now  reached  the  height  of  its  fury.  One 
hears  the  raging  of  the  wind  and  the  menacing  rush 
of  waters.  The  elements  seem  to  he  at  war. 

A  long,  a  very  long  pause.] 

I  did  not  know  what  she  wanted.  I  did  not  know. 
I  did  not  know.  I  did  not  know.  She  came  to  the 
door.  I  do  not  know  whence  she  came.  She  seemed 
to  rise  from  the  marsh,  from  the  ground.  And  she 
came  to  the  door.  I  do  not  know  what  she  wanted. 
I  do  not  know.    I  do  not  know.    I  do  not  know. 

What  did  she  want?  Why  did  she  come  here,  that 
woman  with  the  dead  face  ?  Oh,  the  old  devil !  Just 
because  he  is  rich  .  .  .  Armande!  No!  No!  For 
the  love  of  God,  do  not  go !  Do  not  go !  Do  not  let 
him  go !  He  will  kill  him  .  .  .  Oh,  they  are  pitiless, 
the  monsters  .  .  .  Mother,  cling  to  him.  Twine  your- 
self about  him.  Cry !  Scream !  Weep !  Oh,  do  not  let 
him  go  .  .  .  Do  not  let  him  go!  They  want  to  kill 
him  .  .  .  They  are  pitiless  .  .  .  Dead!  Dead! 
They  are  dead.  They  are  dead.  They  are  all  dead. 
All  .  .  .    That  woman,  too  .  .  . 

Mother,  I  know  he  recognizes  Armande.  He  smiles 
and  kicks  his  little  legs,  the  angel!  I  believe  he  is 
really  beginning  to  speak.  Yesterday  .  .  .  Yester- 
day .  .  .  She  is  looking  for  her  child  who  was  lost 
in  the  marshes  .  .  .  Oh,  how  his  breath  stinks !  And 
his  big  watery  eyes  .    .    .  like  a  frog  .    .    .  and  his 

[44] 


fat  belly  .  .  .  Oh,  I  did  not  tell  him,  I  swear  to  you 
I  did  not  tell  him  ...  It  was  Mere  Martin's  boy, 
the  little  bastard.  He  sees  everything  with  his  big  eyes, 
like  a  frog  ...  a  frog  ... 

She  seeks  everywhere  for  her  lost  child.  He  played 
near  the  marshes  one  day.  She  will  never  find  him. 
For  he  is  dead  .  .  .  dead  .  .  .  The  willows  weep, 
but  they  will  not  tell  her.  They  know !  They  know ! 
Under  their  roots  .  .  .  but  they  will  not  tell  her.  They 
only  weep.  Oh,  she  would  dig  the  ground  with  her 
hands  if  they  told  her  .  .  .  down  to  their  roots!  She 
would  tear  up  the  roots  of  the  willows  to  find  her 
child  .   .   . 

The  lilies  know  .  .  .  but  they  will  not  tell  her.  They 
dare  not  tell  her.  Oh,  she  would  tear  them  up!  She 
would  crush  them  under  her  feet  if  she  knew.  It  was 
they  who  called  to  him.  It  was  they  who  nodded  to 
him  .  .  .  They  no  longer  sing.  They  are  silent  and 
pale  now.    They  hang  their  heads. 

She  seeks  everywhere  .  .  .  everywhere.  Yesterday 
she  found  his  little  shoe.  His  little  shoe !  She  is  look- 
ing for  him  .  .  .  She  seemed  to  rise  from  the  ground 
.  .  .  from  the  marsh.  Her  hair  was  covered  with  wet 
slime  .  .  .  long  hair  .  .  .  green  .  .  .  and  her 
forehead.  Oh,  and  her  eyes  .  .  .  She  had  no  eyes  .  .  . 
only  holes  that  burned  .  .  .  green  fire.  My  God !  why 
does  she  always  smile?  What  does  she  want?  Yes- 
terday she  came  to  the  door.  I  did  not  see  her  come. 
She  seemed  to  rise  from  the  ground  .  .  .  from  the 
marsh. 

[45] 


I  think  she  was  hungry.  If  she  could  speak  she 
would  have  asked  for  something  to  eat.  But  she  did 
not  speak.  She  only  looked  at  me  and  smiled  .  .  . 
and  at  the  baby.  The  water  was  dripping  from  her 
hair  .  .  .  from  her  clothes  .  .  .  from  her  fingers  .  .  . 
green  water  .  .  .  from  her  mouth.  She  bent  down 
and  kissed  the  baby.  What  right  had  she?  She  did 
not  ask  me.  What  right  has  she  to  kiss  my  baby? 
Her  lips  are  poisoned.  The  snakes  have  slept  on  her 
lips. 

I  did  not  speak  to  her.  I  was  afraid.  But  she  only 
smiled  and  went  away.  She  went  into  the  marsh.  The 
cypresses  were  calling  to  her.  They  were  waving  their 
arms.  My  God !  why  does  she  smile  ?  Why  does  she 
always  smile?  She  frightens  me!  I  am  afraid  of  her! 
She  wants  my  child.  Yes,  that  is  why  she  came.  That 
is  why  she  kissed  him.  She  is  lonely  here  in  the 
marshes.  She  is  cold.  She  wants  to  feel  his  little 
arms  around  her  neck.  She  wants  to  feel  his  warm 
little  lips  on  her  breast  .   .   . 

We  must  escape  from  here.  She  will  come  back. 
She  will  come  back  for  my  baby.  We  must  escape 
before  she  comes  back.  Mother,  quick !  Let  us  escape ! 
Armande,  give  me  your  hand  .  .  .  quick  .  .  .  your 
hand  .   .   .  before  she  comes  back  .  .   . 

Mother,  she  is  at  the  window  .  .  .  She  is  looking 
in  ...  at  the  child !  She  is  smiling !  She  has  come 
for  the  child  .  .  .  Mother,  she  is  moving  away  from 
the  window.  Mother,  I  hear  her  steps  in  the  water. 
She  is  coming  to  the  door   .    .    .     Throw  yourself 

[46] 


against  it!  Lock  it!  Cry!  Scream!  Do  not  let  her 
in  .  .  .  Mother,  I  hear  her  hand  on  the  door.  She 
is  feeling  for  the  knob.  Mother,  she  is  opening  the 
door  .  ,  .  She  is  on  the  threshold  .  .  .  Mother, 
she  is  coming  .  .  .  She  is  coming  ...  I  can  hear 
her  breathing.  She  is  coming  .  .  .  No!  No!  .  .  . 
My  baby  .  .  .  Help!  Devil!  Monster!  ...  No! 
No! 


THE  PLAY   ENDS 


[47] 


UNIVEKSITY  OF -CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


